Social Vampire
by Catchy Turn
Summary: Paris, 1892. Art is booming, as is the city's fall into darkness. A new take on the old vampire fic, eventual HPDM. Chapter One reposted and explained.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything even remotely associated with him. All of this happy wonderfulness belongs solely to JK Rowling until she is hit on the head and decides to will it all to me so I can write the seventh book. I'm praying for that day and am taking requests now for plot twists in the event that it actually does happen. Keep your fingers crossed. And I was informed that this is rather like the Vampire Chronicles? I've never seen/read/heard of such a marvelous thing, but I'm trying to be at least marginally original, so hopefully it'll go a different way. If not, then I'm probably channeling the creator somehow and should be exorcised.

Warning: this will be slash of the HPDM variety. If you don't like it, please take yourself elsewhere so I don't offend you in any way. There will also be language and, as they put in movie ratings, "vampire violence." Whatever that means. And just imagine that when the people are talking amongst themselves, that it's in French. I would put the dialogue in French, but I don't think anyone would want to read it. So everyone with the exception of Harry, for the most part, is not in English. And if my French it totally wrong, please correct me! I'm only in my second year, so I'm sure I'm butchering it.

A/N: Ok, to anyone who was confused by the original first chapter: yes, it was supposed to be like that. I didn't randomly hit my head whilst writing it I think so have no worries there. Basically, I was trying to convey a sense of elapsed time. If you'll notice, the sequence is very important. It goes from before he was turned into a vampire (the times when he was with his father and in the church) which are un-italicized, to the times after he was a vampire (at the school and living on his own) which are italicized. The two time periods just switch back and forth. I guess I was being too ambitious by trying to do that, but I shall try to make amends. Or if anyone wants me to give warning before I do that, please just let me know. I've gone back and tried to fix chapter one a bit to make it more understandable. If it's still all over the place, let me know and I'll try to rework the whole thing somehow. My deepest condolences.

Social Vampire

Chapter One

_For him it wasn't a matter of life and death. There was no life about it. There was no life about him. There was only night. Cold, dark, unfeeling night. And he thrived on it._

---

His father had branded him at a very young age.

The two of them had been walking down Rue d'Oublier and he had amusedly wondered aloud at the street's name. To forget a street seemed to him impossible; they couldn't be forgotten, or even lost for that matter, when everyone knew they were there. Hundreds of people traversed the busy street every day, there was no logic to the name in his young mind. No logic, no reason, thus no sense was made of the situation. If there was one thing his aristocratic upbringing had instilled in him it was that with a rational and clear thinking mind, one could understand anything placed before them, no matter how complex or difficult to grasp. His father had immediately clapped a hand over his mouth and ordered him to keep walking. Not understanding why, but too afraid and well trained to question his father in view of the public, he didn't open his mouth again until they had reached home.

The Malfoy mansion was located on the outer limits of Paris, well hidden away from the prying and inquisitive eyes of the media and the cities inhabitants. Everyone knew it was there, it was like Versailles in that respect, but none were brave enough to risk the wrath of the Malfoy name upon their own head by dropping by for tea. The occasional tourist would stop in unknowingly, looking for snatches of history and the story of the house, but other than those misguided few and the business associates of Malfoy the elder, there were never any visitors to the estate.

Rue d'Oublier, his father had explained, was not forgotten itself, but whom it belonged to, for many poor and ignorant souls had gone astray there. Vampires, Draco, his father had said, control that street. If ever he was unfortunate enough to be alone in Montemartre at night and felt anything strange he was to not stop running until he was inside Le Sacre Coeur. There he would be safe.

Though, his father had mused, some added protection wouldn't be wholly unnecessary.

The family crest that had been proudly emblazoned on the point of a fire-poker, a cross flanked by dragons, had henceforth been deeply scarred into Draco's left palm. It had taken every speck of willpower that the boy contained not to scream at the pain and the sight of his branded hand. Instead, he had remained straight faced in the presence of adversity and not let his father see through his collected visage. His father would be proud of him for this little endeavor if nothing else. He wore gloves from that day forward so as not to show of his abnormality, it was unbefitting for the heir of a wealthy lord to be marred in any way. Even when the wound was inflicted by that very lord himself. If only it had actually helped.

---

_Le Quartier Latin was the perfect place to live. The perfect place to make friends out of brief acquaintances and then possibly eat them. It was easy to blend in. One thin young man with bloodshot eyes sipping coffee and living off the espresso rush wasn't any different from the rest of them. He was just another starving artist to most passer-bys, easily lost in the throng that traversed the city every day. Draco's only problem was his hair, but the blonde locks among the more Parisian heads were easily covered. Once upon a time he had truly liked to stand out in such a way, but now it was getting to be more and more dangerous as time passed. There were those out in the world who would love to be rid of him, but he couldn't have that happening any time soon. There was far too much to be dead for._

---

The night he had decided to take his father's advice and find refuge in Le Sacre Coeur had been both the biggest mistake he'd ever made and the most defining moment of his young life. The nineteen year old had been out walking for the majority of the day, simply enjoying Paris and its many quaint shops and people, when he began to notice the sun beginning its descent for the night. He was in the very center of Montmartre, his home was on the opposite side of town. He would never make it there in time. The white marble cross of the church had barely been in view, so he cast off his Malfoy dignity and began to run.

It was dusk by the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs and his cloak had gotten heavier with each step. Though he wasn't the most out of shape boy, the Malfoy's did pride themselves on their physical appearance, he was prone to illness and many fights with his health left him more easily winded than most. Moments before his shadow had been dutifully following him, getting longer as he went, but by then it had disappeared completely, leaving him alone to face the ever spreading darkness. The shadows around him began to shift and take on new forms, new faces, and he felt the very beginnings of nervousness start to worm its way through his chest, trying to paralyze his final steps.

Chest heaving and hair plastered to his forehead, Draco had reached the top. He flung open the doors in triumph, but quickly realized his folly and dragged them closed for fear of admitting the night.

---

_Since the very public and mysterious death of his father, Draco made it a point to slip quietly into the woodwork. He'd kept his first name, but had adopted the surname of Espere out of the sheer irony of it all. Hope was a commodity that was not usually allotted to his kind._

_He'd enrolled at l'Ecole de Paris in the field of visual arts and was slowly becoming recognized for his new found skill. It was one that he'd never been given the chance to fully realize before as his relations hadn't exactly been the type that was open to creativity. Being a terribly wealthy family they'd naturally appreciated all of the arts, funding local painters and sculptors as well as stocking their home with original prints and pieces. But when such a thing bloomed within the bloodline itself, it was more acceptable to stamp it out and go into something more productive like business or politics._

_It was doubtless to say that since he'd killed his father, things had been looking up._

---

He had bid the priest a shaky bon soir and curled up in front of the altar, counting on the Virgin to protect him while he slept. Though it soon became apparent over the course of the night that she didn't care for him very much at all. Over the course of his life, faith in something more than himself had kept Draco going. It was what kept him striving to be a better person, what kept him from not following in his fathers every footstep. He didn't know yet what it was that he believed in, but at least he had something. Yet not even that could save him.

Draco woke with a start far into the night to see a face peering down at him through the darkness. He had gasped in delight at the magnificence above him, thinking solely of angels and praising his wondrous good luck. The man smiled beatifically in return, turning Draco's wonder into terror at the simple action, all pointed teeth and crimson lips. A disturbingly cold hand had been placed on his forehead and all the world had faded.

---

_There was only one problem with Draco's new found freedom. He had found none like himself. Paris had one of the largest vampiric populations in the world and he still felt alone. It wasn't a new emotion, for his family had never been the sort to dote love and attention on their only son. Yes, they would support his decisions and spend time with him to sculpt him into the best heir he could possibly be, but when tutoring sessions were over and etiquette training done for the day, he would be left alone to his own devices. His childhood had been lonely more often than not, but this new found sense of the devoid was all the same unsettling. _

_Though he supposed that it came with his new occupation, his sort didn't usually travel together. Or at least, he thought they didn't. There were so many questions that he had that none but one of his own could answer. He had grudgingly admitted to himself that he needed someone. A mentor, someone to counsel him, a teacher, if you will. This he had found in Severus Snape. _

---

When he had awoken, his hands were bound behind his back and he had been moved to a coarse wooden pew. Surrounding him were creatures of impeccable beauty. Almost all of them were the perfect Parisians, dark haired and eyed with unmarked ivory skin. All of them save for two. They were different. Yet their lofty features did nothing to quell his fears.

The Virgin had been blindfolded.

---

_Draco's first day at l'Ecole had been rather ground breaking. The class where he first found himself even slightly at ease was simply called Art 101. _

_His first three classes of the day had been as pleasant as they could have been. History, music, and some ungraspable philosophy course weren't at all as terrible as he thought they would be. The history was captivating, the music theory interesting, and the philosophy could have been much worse. All of these things he had studied previously under his father, so they were sure not to give him any difficulty. The only problem was that all of the teachers seemed to have some horribly blatant love affair with summer and were prone to throwing open every last one the windows to let in the brilliant sunlight raining down on the city. Though the light wasn't death inducing as Draco had heard rumored, it was probably the least comfortable experience imaginable to sit through two hour classes in direct light. He'd managed to find seats in the dark corners of the room in history and music, but he'd arrived late to philosophy and was forced to sit directly in the glare from one of the highly arched windows. _

_After about twenty minutes the skin on his face had started to turn a bit pink. At the end of the first hour he smelled his hair beginning to sizzle and felt the beginnings of blisters on the back of his bare right hand. He had removed that particular glove so he would have less trouble taking notes, but apparently it took its toll. Quickly excusing himself, he ran out into the hall, the darkness of the stone corridor welcoming him. He pressed his hand against the wall, the coolness of it seeping into his burned hand, but not doing anything to stop the pain. If anything, that made it worse. Hissing out a breath, Draco pressed his lips to the aggravated skin. The blisters immediately disappeared, leaving his skin its fragile looking white once again. At this, the young man grinned. There was much to be learned about his new state of affairs._

---

How they were able to step foot inside the church soon became apparent to the boy they were holding hostage.

The woman in charge, if a true woman is what you could call her, was a very vision of loveliness. She never revealed her name to her young captive, but all the others referred to her as 'mother.' Her hair could be likened to spun gold in the way that it caught the candle light that danced around her surprisingly pleasant face and around her neck, nestled in the curve of her throat, hung what appeared to be a large, prismatic diamond, hollowed out and filled with blood.

They explained that it was in the church's name, the sentiment that allowed them to come inside, to take refuge from those against them. Le Sacre Coeur, the Sacred Heart. Who would hold a heart more sacred than those who depended upon them to live? Not only do humans require the heart, but vampires do as well. The heart pumps the blood on which they feed, so this particular church was one of the highest reverence for they understood the logic behind it perfectly.

At first he had struggled against his bonds, but quickly came to the conclusion that it was useless. He would only waste what strength he had left. With his head bowed over the rope around his wrists, Draco knew exactly what was to become of him. Fervently he prayed for help. But no one came.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything even remotely associated with him. All of this happy wonderfulness belongs solely to JK Rowling until she is hit on the head and decides to will it all to me so I can write the seventh book. I'm praying for that day and am taking requests now for plot twists in the event that it actually does happen. Keep your fingers crossed.

A/N: I'd like to say thank you to the reviewers who voiced concerns about the understandability of chapter one. I don't have a beta, so any help with editing and whatnot is much appreciated. Just to clarify, the first bit of this chapter is a dream. nods The rest is not. And I'll taking a bit of creative license with some of Draco's classmates, I know these people didn't all live at the same time, but in the world of fanfiction, they do. So I hope you enjoy.

Social Vampire

Chapter Two

_Through narrowed eyes, Draco watched him. Though the young man didn't know exactly who "he" was, the blade he was revolving through his fingers couldn't be construed as anything more than a not so subtle threat. The weapon looked ancient, but positively deadly in the pale grip. For some reason, though, the filed edge wasn't even irritating the fingers it was being expertly threaded through. The man's eyes came up to meet Draco's and for a moment he was flustered, not expecting the sudden contact or the feeling that he had missed a step while going down the stairs. Startled though he was, he found that he couldn't look away, instead opting to fall farther forwards into them until he felt as is he would never escape again._

_"Like what you see?" the man asked, managing to sound both suggestive and bored at the same time. His hand had not stilled. "I suppose you'll want me like all the rest?"_

_Draco felt a shudder of both revulsion and excitement at the proposition, feeling an irresistible pull towards the creature before him. A low laugh cleared the fog from his mind and he turned his head to see the woman from before. She was dressed simply, yet elegantly, the diamond on her neck the only adornment she needed. Though not traditionally beautiful, being simply more striking than anything else, she was nonetheless remarkable on account of her soft golden curls and the way she carried herself. She stood impeccably straight and moved with an air of both grace and deadliness. It was as if she had grown up in both finishing schools and the art of poison making, delicate, yet more than capable of killing someone and feeling not even the slightest remorse._

_"Please disregard the pathetic drivel of my," she paused for a moment as though analyzing her thoughts, "I suppose you could call him my husband." She nodded, mentally accepting it, "Yes, that title will do. Don't pay any mind to what he says, he's only an incubus. They are all libido and no brain."_

_The man grinned at Draco's carefully school away expression of shock. "What she's trying to say is that I only want to get in your pants," he said pleasantly, one leg pushing himself up from his sitting position to saunter closer to his new prey. "Which is true, so please, feel free to ignore me. Unless you actually want what I'm offering." Draco violently shook his head, ignoring the strange urge to beg him for just that. "I don't care if you don't want it, mind you, I'll take you anyway."_

_"Asmodai," the woman hissed, her eyes momentarily flashing. "Leave him alone, he belongs to me."_

_"I get what I want," he reasoned with her. "That's how it's been for centuries now." _

_"If you take one more step towards him, you die a thousand deaths."_

_With a mockingly respectful nod he sat back down and resumed fiddling with the almost dagger, now with a sulky look. "As you insist."_

_"You can't be here." Draco had finally found his voice. "Your kind can't come inside the church." He sounded a bit panicky, even to himself. _

_"Ah, but there you're wrong," the woman replied smugly. "As you can see, we're all very inside the church, and we're all very much alive. In a manner of speaking, of course." _

_"And their children may enter into the congregation of the Lord in their third generation," the incubus softly quoted Deuteronomy, his eyes blazing wickedly in the candle light._

_"That can't apply to you," Draco gasped. "That was only to a certain set of people," for the life of him he couldn't remember, "and you don't believe in that sort of thing anyway."_

_"Even the very demons of hell believe in the Christ and they quake and tremble at his name," Asmodai sneered, again spouting scripture to meet his ends._

_"You dare to mock the Lord in his own house?" Draco asked incredulously, almost believing that lightning would burst through the ceiling and smite the offensive creature._

_"Enough," the woman cut in. "Mr. Malfoy, I'm tired of listening to your voice and Asmodai, your incessant quotations are wearing thin my patience. If we could please settle this affair and be on our way, I would be more than pleased."_

_"Just say the word, my lady," the incubus drawled, "and I'll gladly turn him for you."_

_"Fool," she spat. "If you touch him, I will banish you to hell for the rest of your existence. Don't think that just because you belong to me means you have an immunity to my wrath."_

_"Please," he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in her general direction. "You wouldn't dare."_

_"Oh, don't tempt me," she warned. "Just remember Asmodai, I could have left you to _him_."_

_He paled almost imperceptibly, his deathly white color turning into an all out pallor. Yet somehow it still managed to look more than simply attractive on the demon. He was positively radiant with his new found anger. How dare she bring to light such unfortunate times, times that he had spent countless thousands of years trying to bury. For far back in the dark and shadowed recesses of his mind he trembled at the very thought of him, but he refused to give in to her threats. "Fine," he snapped. "I won't touch your pathetic little human." _

_With a sharp flick of his wrist, the blade he'd been twirling shot across the room and imbedded itself into the soft flesh directly below the right side of Draco's collarbone. The boy let out a choked sound as he was knocked from his sitting position onto his back. The hard wooden pew dug into his spine as he tried not to writhe in his agony. Malfoy's did not show pain. He'd been hurt many times before, but nothing like this. The torture was far too intense, it was more than he could have handled in a hundred lifetimes. In that moment he gave up. He cursed his father, the laughing vampires, the church he was being held captive in, and the very blood that was running tainted and discolored through his veins._

---

Draco rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying hard not to fall asleep at the café table where he sat. Though he was a regular at this particular spot, it wouldn't do for him to fall face first into his morning coffee. The drink had no physical gain for him, it didn't aid in sustaining him in the least, but he enjoyed it still. Besides, it was far too engrained in the weave of his life to be so easily cast aside. Carefully sipping the bitter drink he felt himself relax a bit, the overcast nature of the day making it enjoyable outside even for him. Today might not be half so bad as it had shaped up to be upon awakening. Running late and splitting headaches could be done away with in time, so the day would logically be looking up soon. Except, of course, for school.

Draco let out a slight groan. Today was his first day of school. It wasn't as though he had forgotten. Quite the contrary, really. He'd never been to a public college before and the young Malfoy was more than just a bit anxious about the prospects that it might be bringing him very soon. He had stayed up later than usual the night before because of his nerves despite the promise he'd made to himself to go to sleep early. It was just that it was getting harder and harder to sleep during the night and stay lucid during the day. The light wasn't fatal, but it was unpleasant a great deal of the time. Being conscious during the day went against every natural urge inside him, but he was determined to have as normal of a life as he possibly could, his condition considering. Sleep didn't come easily, and when he finally did drift off, it was into the now familiar world of nightmare visions and snippets of memory.

"At least I remembered this time," the boy mumbled to his rapidly cooling coffee cup, one finger idly tracing the rim. Ever since his transformation, as Draco so delicately referred to it, he'd been plagued by the same returning dream. Usually he couldn't recall it when he woke, instead it chose to be a vague collection of thoughts strung together in orders that didn't make sense. But this time was different. Now he knew every nuance of his dream, every last tiny and insignificant detail. He knew how the candlelight had oozed across the walls, he knew how it felt to charge up flight after flight of stairs only to find yourself ill at ease and wary. There was no aspect of the dream that he didn't understand. Yet he wasn't surprised by any of it. Nothing was out of the ordinary, for the dream ran exactly as the real life event had. His gloved left hand subconsciously drifted up to run over the jacket covered scar the dagger had left behind. Instead of being white like his other minor defects, this one in particular was different. It had healed far more slowly than any other wound he had ever received and upon closing, instead of turning faintly to silver and disappearing, it had turned an angry black that stood out prominently against his pale skin.

He still didn't know why this was. Medically speaking, it didn't seem possible. Then again, he wasn't trained in such things, so for all he knew it could be perfectly normal. He could only assume that the strange discoloration was because right after it had been inflicted, most of the blood that would have gone to healing and clotting was sucked out of him. Draco heard the church bells chime a quarter to the hour and winced as pain shot through his head. That was another thing he didn't enjoy dealing with, the bells. And they were ringing all the time. On the hour and every fifteen minutes, plus every time there was a wedding or a funeral. So basically the damn things never stopped to give him a moments peace. And now they were signaling that he had to be getting off to class before he was late. It would never do to be anything less than punctual on the first day, even if he no longer was a Malfoy.

He took a final sip of his coffee and winced at the now not even lukewarm liquid. It was high time he was off.

---

Draco arrived first to art class. He had learned through the course of the day that it was most prudent to arrive early so he wouldn't get stuck in a bad seat. The previous class had been philosophy and he'd ended up sitting directly in the path of the light streaming in through the window. Needless to say, that had been most unpleasant. But he came to realize that he needn't have hurried quite so quickly, for the room he found himself in wasn't admitting any kind of light.

The windows were all obscured by heavy black drapes, giving the room an almost eerie feel. There were candles in sconces flanking the door and placed sporadically around the room so the students who were yet to arrive could easily see in the absence of natural light. Draco chose a seat near the center of the room, leaving space on either side of him for others to sit. He was in desperate need of some new friends and there was no harm in leaving room around himself to promote that fact.

After a few minutes, people began to slowly filter in through the doors, all looking around curiously at the new setting. Apparently this particular professor was the only one with a penchant for darkness during one of the year's brightest and most inviting months. A boy with smiling eyes came in and immediately made his way to the seat to the right of Draco's.

"Bonjour!" he said brightly, "Is this seat taken?"

"Not at all," Draco replied, pulling the chair out for him and extending a hand, "Please, have a seat. I'm Draco. Draco Espere."

"Henri Matisse," the boy returned, taking the offered hand. "Wonderful to meet you, Monsieur Espere!"

The class room door swung shut with a slam and everyone's heads came up to take in the appearance of their new professor. Draco immediately understood the décor for it matched the man perfectly. Cloaked in black, the only white they could see on the man was his face which stood out in stark contrast to both his clothes and his hair. He had a scowling face, completed with a hooked nose and eyes that looked as though they could tear you apart with the greatest of ease.

"That's the professor?" Draco whispered to his new seatmate, his eyes never leaving the man at the front of the room. "He looks positively terrifying."

"Oui," Henri replied, sounding delighted, "I was hoping it would be him."

"Why, do you have a death wish?"

"No," the boy said with a laugh. "He's positively brilliant, a living legend. That menacing figure is none other than Severus Snape, one of the most renowned artists of our time. His work is marvelous."

Draco's eyebrows rose in the most miniscule fashion. His family had been fortunate enough to have one of the man's paintings and it was one of his personal favorites. It was just strange enough from all the others to really stand out and just dark and twisted enough to make his mother frown at it every time she would walk past, demanding of his father why they kept such a thing in plain view where everyone could see it. The painting was that of a sort of angel type man, though his wings were black and tattered. The man was suspended over a sea of fire by ropes around his wrists that were cutting into his fair skin. Naturally his mother found the whole thing terribly appalling. Draco always fancied that he was a fallen angel being punished for something and would often stop to look at it when he passed.

He was about to voice his impressed sentiments when the professor began to speak.

"There will be no lesson today," he said quietly, demanding the attention from everyone in the room on presence alone. "I merely want you to paint. The only requirement is that it must be a self portrait, nothing more. Begin."

"Oh, splendid," Henri said delightedly as they both began pulling out supplies. "This should be a lovely time."

Draco didn't say anything to this, he was too busy thinking about what he could possibly put down to represent himself. He looked over and saw Henri already smearing red paint across his canvas and lifted his eyebrows in amusement.

"My hair is a bit reddish in some lights," Henri explained with a grin, his paintbrush not stopping. "And this is a wonderful shade, I just couldn't refuse something so appealing."

"Of course not!" Draco said, pulling out a tube of black paint in response. "My hair is quite dark in certain lights."

"That's the spirit!"

The two painted in a companionable silence for quite some time before checking the others progress. Henri had painted a jumble of eye jarring colors, all meshing together to form something that could have very possibly been his face to someone on hallucinogenic drugs. Draco had painted himself off center and all in very dark shades against a solid red background, looking almost as though he were surrounded in a sea of either blood or wine.

"Very good Monsieurs Espere and Matisse," said a low voice from behind the two. They turned around in surprise to see their professor standing over them observing their work.

"Thank you, sir!" Henri said delightedly, thrilled to be singled out by their artistically renowned professor. Draco merely nodded his thanks. His eyes briefly met those of his professor and he was momentarily pulled in, recognizing something in them that he saw in his own every day. It was anger and pain and hope all at the same time yet not there at all. The barest of smiles crossed the man's face and he nodded, acknowledging his pupils epiphany. Draco's face broke into an amazed grin, knowing that he was to be in very good and capable hands. There was nothing to fear now.

"If you'll stay after class for a few moments, Monsieur Espere," the professor said quietly, "I'm sure we can find something interesting to discuss."


End file.
